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SFC01 - Sahta, First Child

Once there was a girl named Sahta. She was courageous and strong of heart and could not bear to see anyone in pain; but what decided the course of her life was only that she was the first.

She was born when the first dragon flew overhead; and the Princess herself stopped by to see her, when she came; and when her mother found that she could name the little girl, she was as happy as a mother can be. And her father was happy too, and the midwife, and everyone who lived in their street - and in the next street, and in the entire city. Sahta had a name, and that name was Sahta, and she was the first child the city had had since the plague passed. And because she had a name, because she was Sahta, they no longer hoped that the plague was over and that the Princess had saved them, but they knew it; and so all the city rejoiced, and the dead and the living alike danced in the street and laughed and called her name: "Sahta! Sahta! Sahta, first child!"

She knew nothing of this, of course. She was only a baby, gurgling and crying, just like any other. And she learned nothing of it  until one night when, a child, she ran away from her father's arms, because the night was so warm and the moon so full and she didn't want to go to bed, she wasn't tired! And because she was light enough to swing over walls and fast enough to dart into alleys unseen, she ran away through the city and he could not catch her.

She ran for a long time, her bare feet slapping against warm stone, drawn on by the night's breeze and by the sight of the stars scattered throughout the sky. She stopped when she couldn't run anymore for the stitch in her side. She didn't want to go to bed yet  the night was so beautiful!  but her side hurt, and she was tired, and she would walk back now. But she'd left her father behind long ago, and she didn't know the way back home. The street was dark and empty. For a short while she wandered about, searching for something she knew; then she sat down with her head against her knees and cried.

She was sitting on a step, on a market street, with merchants' abandoned tents all around her. One stall, alone, was still tended: its owner had gone out for a while, and had asked a friend to watch over the wares until he returned to clean up. He was a ghost, and his friend too; but so many people were, here, that this did not spare them from thieves.

The friend  a kindly man, on the whole  heard the child crying, and he called her over. "Come here, child," he said, "come here, that's it, don't cry. What's wrong? Lost your way, have you? Don't cry now."

She came over, glad that there was someone there, that she wasn't quite alone. She nodded and she wiped her tears away with her sleeve and she tried to swallow her sobs. The tears didn't quite stop, and the best she could do with her sobs was turn them into hiccups, but it was enough that she could listen.

"Come now, don't cry," said the man, and patted her head as well as he could, stopping his hand before it went too far through her head. It was a strange feeling, like a tingling in her scalp, and she laughed a bit through her tears. "That feels funny," she said.

"That's it," said the man. "That's right. Don't cry. Now what's gotten you so upset?"

That brought the tears back. "I don't know how to get home," she hiccuped.

She shook her head, not knowing how to answer the second question, but to the first she said: "Sahta."

Now the man threw back his head and laughed, a big laugh from the bottom of his belly. "You are Sahta, child? And to think I just met you on the street  just like that  and you're Sahta! Well, I know where your home is, little one, and I'll take you there just as soon as I can  but first  oh, you're Sahta! And I didn't know!"

She looked at him, confused.

"You don't know who you are, do you! Well! Perhaps your parents were waiting until you were a little older  but why wait? You should know. You must know. You are Sahta! You are the first child!"

"What first child?"

"Oh, this world was very sick for a very long time, child. A very long time indeed. Surely you've heard of the plague  the gray bane  all this world was dying."

She nodded. "Father said he and Mother lived by the river. Because there were fish, sometimes. And water. But they kept losing themselves, he said."

"Yes  they lost themselves, and so did the fish, and so did the water. All the world lost itself! But the Princess came from another world and saved us -"

"Mother said the Princess came to see me when I was a baby!"

"Of course she did. Because you were the first, Sahta. You were the first baby this city had after the sickness passed, and because of you we knew it was over, and we were safe. We all know your name, Sahta, all the dead, and likely all the living as well."

"But I didn't do anything."

"Oh, we don't hold you as a hero  only as a hope. But you are a hope. You are Sahta! First child! You are Sahta. And I didn't know you  but that cannot happen again. You see, I am friendly enough, and I like children, and I would have helped you even if you were someone else  but there are others  I have a friend, you see  he owns this stall, you know! But he doesn't like it when people, well, when people bother him. And with Lady Katira gone, what's to stop him from hurting you?"

She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, he's not that bad, really  he's just a little, well, you see, he's just a little strange. He doesn't always believe we're back. It's back. The world. The veil, the other side, everything. There is no one gladder of your existence than he is, I'll have you know, but if he didn't know it was you  why  if you came here after the stall was closed  no, no, we'll have to do something about it."

"But -" she said. "What -"

"Come here! Listen, child, this is a city ruled by a necromancer  it has been that way all along, since long before the gray plague came  and half of us are living and half of us are dead  it has always been that way. Now the living, they can go anywhere in this world, easily, just by walking. And they see each other and know that they're alive, and that's all well and good; they might have gone on for another few years yet. But we dead, we're bound, we can't do everything. And we could do nothing during the plague, nothing at all, do you hear me? So many of the bone-men disappeared  they cannot die, you know, not properly  and we ghosts couldn't come through the veil at all. But that's not the worst of it, child, it isn't; the veil was eaten too by the plague, even the other side. And we couldn't do a thing! We were trapped, and disappearing! So the living might be glad of you, indeed, but the dead are more than glad. We are in your debt, forever. And so -"

"But... I didn't do anything."

"Oh, you did, Sahta, you did. You showed us that it was over. And so, I will give you something that is not given to one of the living more than once in a hundred years  even before the plague. I will give you the protection of the dead."

She yawned. It was well past her bedtime. She could hardly hold her eyes open anymore.

"Here -" He gave her a tiny bottle filled with oil, with a cord tied around it so it could be worn as a necklace. She took it and looked at it tiredly. "What is it?" she asked.

"Usually, it's worn to keep away the dead  the dangerous ones, of course  to ward off ghosts. But for you, it's so that I can touch you, so I can mark you. Open it  yes, that's right  and spread the oil over your hands and face."

She took out the cork and did as he asked. It smelled like sweetgrass and pine.

"There, now I can touch you! And so can any other ghost. Now give me your right hand."

She held it out.

He drew a mark on the back of her hand with his finger. For a second she thought she saw it shine, but then it was gone and she could see nothing.

"Anything dead will see that," he told her, "and it will know that you are Sahta, the first child, and that you have the protection of the dead. Nothing dead will ever harm you."

"Okay," she said and yawned again.

"Now come on," he said, lifting her up and setting her on his shoulders. "Ufh. Now, let's go home to your parents, all right?"

"All right," she yawned.

The man knew where she lived, of course  she was Sahta, after all  and he took her straight there. Her mother was waiting outside and crying, and she plucked her off the ghost's back and thanked him at least fifteen times for bringing her home.

"Will I see you again?" Sahta asked, before her mother carried her back inside.

"Oh, I'll be around!" the ghost said, and laughed his deep belly-laugh again, and walked away; and Sahta's mother took her straight to bed, and tucked her in firmly, and she fell asleep with the scent of sweetgrass hovering in her nose.

FlashFictionMonth has come to a close, which makes this – for me – five years. July has become an indispensable highlight of my year, and once again I’m very pleased with what came of it: not quite every story was a winner, but close to it.

My biggest obstacles this year should, perhaps, have been the three extra challenges heaped on top of the official ones – but in fact they were the heat (which essentially limited my writing to nighttime) and a certain motivational problem around week 2. Of the challenges, I was surprised to find that the anonymously contributed “every character is queer” one made things hardest. Several reasons for that: 1) flash fiction is short enough that usually it just doesn’t come up, meaning that I had to write a lot of transition- or relationship-focused stories in order to make room for it; 2) its influence made the fairy tale challenge harder than it otherwise would have been: I had to select stories to rewrite that would work well with it; 3) representation is great and all, but burying one’s gays is not, so I was forced to write a number of stories just dripping with wholesomeness. This is, of course, a good thing. Wholesome queer stories are very much needed in the world today, and expanding one’s boundaries as a writer is always good – I default to tragedy far too often, so all this sappy wholesome romantic happy-ending fluff was a really good thing for me.

I mean, not that the tragic ones aren’t in there too.

Teague-Drydan’s fairy tale challenge was fun and excellent, though it contributed to the tone of this month being much less varied than in previous years. Usually I try to go for a good mix of stories: this time, I totalled one humour story (the collaboration challenge) and two or three sort of silly stories (the official fairy tale / anthropomorphism challenge, written during my week of extremely failed motivation, and another tropes challenge or two). The good news is that the overriding tone is one that I very much enjoy, and apparently so do many of my readers. I’ve had people asking me to publish an anthology of fairy tale rewrites and/or original fairy tales, and I’m quite tempted to make that a reality if I can: partly because “publish a book of fairy tale rewrites/interpretations” has been on my not-quite-serious internal to-do list since I was about eight, partly because I love these things, and partly because it’d give me a chance to introduce more variety than I did for FFM. Due to time constraints for research, nearly all of the fairy tales I rewrote were either Grimm tales or ones from more recently collected, more specifically local folklore. Which is great and all, but not particularly diverse.

joe-wright’s All-Star challenge, which he talked me into taking on despite the will of the dice, was actually in many ways the easiest. Getting everything in there in very limited time on top of everything else was a bit of a struggle, but for the most part it acted more as inspiration than as a limit. So I guess I won’t be ruing that challenge after all.

Now that the month is over, it’s time for a break, sleep, and work on a bunch of other things that I’ve put on hold for the sake of FFM. Also, an upcoming vacation. I’ll get started on this year’s FFM collection when I’ve recovered a bit and have the time, but I will be out of the country, without a computer or internet, from August 17th to the beginning of September. If you need me during that time, leave me a note or comment somewhere where it won’t get lost, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can (but not before September); and as for the collection, what with that break there’s a very good chance it won’t be out until sometime next month.

In the meantime, here are some other FFM stories for you to read! As always, I’ve compiled a list of my favourite responses to each official FFM challenge:

Day 1: the character/setting/MacGuffin challenge.

There’s a definite chance I’m biased in choosing distortified’s “Anticlimax” for this day. My character description was purposely cherry-picked to appear badass, and yet he made me far more badass than I had any right to expect. But aside from that, it’s a really excellent story: it takes the badassery and runs with it, Lyrrie’s characterisation is just as awesome, and the way we (all right, all right, the characters) interact with each other is perfect.

“Incorruptible” by ilyilaice comes with a host of content warnings (self-harm, child abandonment, rape, suicide; I’m going to throw peer abuse in there as well), and not for nothing. Brace yourself before you read it, avoid it if you have to. That said, it is well worth the read if you can stomach it, and beautifully written.

I’m actually going to feature another one for this day, because I feel the need to balance this one out a bit. “Buckle Up Your Swash” by SCFrankles is a far more light-hearted take on the challenge, and the death – though implied – must truly have been spectacular.

This was easily the hardest challenge of the month, in my view: not because of the verse itself, but because of having to fit it into prose. It's something I could have done well on another day, maybe, or with more time, but certainly not then. DamonWakes’ “Shakespeare Jumps the Shark” made it look utterly natural.

“Like Magic” by The-Inkling is beautiful and sweet, and no matter how much I look at it I can’t make up my mind whether it’s sad or… whatever the opposite of “sad” is, when it isn’t “happy”. In any case, it’s excellent.

Oreramar’s “Blood and Iron” is beautiful and eerie, in the best style of the fae. JayaLaw’s “Experiments with Flying” takes place afterwards – long afterwards – which is almost the coolest thing about this collaboration. It may be the only one I’ve seen that spans millennia.

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G. Deyke is an indie author of games, novels, short stories, flash fiction, and the occasional poem or screenplay. They will write anything from humor to horror to fairy tales, but have a particular penchant for speculative fiction: especially (though not exclusively) fantasy. They currently reside in a small village in southern Germany.

Due to a tragic imbalance of their machismo-to-sense ratio, G. Deyke can never refuse a ridiculous challenge.

Thank you so much! I have, in fact, done something similar, though it was unplanned enough that it doesn't stand up pacing-wise the way a planned mini-series would. Still, "The Gift", "For the World's More Full of Weeping", "The Silence of Death in a Vacuum", and "As They Feast" - all written for 2017's Flash Fiction Month - at least share a world. I might want to do more with that sometime, and/or something entirely different. I do love this mini-series idea.